Ann and I shared long, open, honest conversations about end-of-life issues and wished we weren’t getting so good at them. “Talk about it,” I told people at speaking engagements. Confront the reality that death will surely come. Exactly when, who knows?
I was much less fearful of the home hospice experience we were going through with Paul because of what Amy and I and our family had to endure. In a way, I was hyperaware of the beauty in the room when Paul, the patriarch, was surrounded by his family and his devoted spouse. I was able to talk to him even when it was unclear what he processed. I was able to touch him lovingly, even when there was no physical response. I was able to observe the sheer beauty of seeing this loyal pack experiencing yet another devastation together.
Then I’d go home at night, climb into bed, and try to fall asleep while wondering if I’d ever see Paul again. I distinctly remember springing up one morning at 3:00 a.m., knowing exactly what I would say to him and feeling compelled to write it in my journal:
Can I talk to you about something?
I know you have not been feeling good/yourself and I am so sorry.
I want you to know that I understand if it is too uncomfortable, too overwhelming.
If it is too much, I get it.
I want you to know a couple of things:
You are a role model to me;
The way you are as a husband, as a businessman, as a father to me and especially to Amy and a grandfather to our children is so incredible and inspiring;
Thank you for making me so much a part of the Krouse family.
If you are too overwhelmed and too tired and you sometime leave this physical world, please give Amy a big hug and kiss—tell her I love her every day so much.
I quietly read it to him in a private moment. He only nodded, but I knew he got it.
I would not have known how to convey such specific feelings before I discovered how to do it myself after Amy’s death. That is part of why I take on that mission in my life now. But Paul and I shared many, many private moments in my twenty-eight or so years of knowing this spectacular man.
I remember clearly sitting outside at the Krouses’ Florida home when the kids were quite young. At the time, Paul had a propensity to enjoy a cigar on occasion. It took a special moment to break one out together. The moment I am thinking about, Paul broke out a stogie and we simultaneously enjoyed a nice scotch. It was a quiet moment I never had with my own father. Our conversation covered topics from raising kids, to the importance of family, to what it would take for the Cubs to compete. It was one of many moments I will never forget about Paul.
We were all together, surrounding our patriarch, when his final moments came. The scene was stunningly beautiful, if you can call such finality beautiful. Truly, though, the fact that the last thing this sensational human being, this leader of his family, saw in this lifetime were the many faces of those who absolutely treasured him seemed like the way we should all aspire to leave this world someday.
I’d managed to be stoic and present for my kids throughout Paul’s time in hospice. When he was officially gone, my sense of serenity cracked, my pent-up sorrow boiled over, and it was my kids who were comforting me through my uncontrollable sobs, a tidal wave of grief catching up to me.
At the time of Paul’s passing, I had endured the loss of my wife, my dad, and our sweet family pet Cougar. Paul absolutely adored his firstborn, and he was crazy about Cougar. (I can hear him say “Cougs” or “Cougie” even now.) Each new loss was like a body blow from Mike Tyson, physically and emotionally. Compounding my own experiences with loss, at this point I had been talking a great deal about navigating through grief and loss to throngs of others in public forums.
In a profound way, my own experiences of loss made me a better messenger to discuss this issue. Having these personal experiences absolutely made me a better listener. I connected with and appreciated in a deeper way so many around the world who shared their stories with me—not just about death, but about all of the types of loss people experience in this world that I have written about thus far in these pages. In addition, I became a better student about all aspects of the grieving process. Reading what others experience, observing the ways people deal with grief, and being inspired by how resilient people can be permitted me to move forward both personally and in my new path as a public speaker.
All of which, I’m sure, contributed to the fact that, a few days after Paul’s death, I somehow managed to get through delivering my third eulogy in less than two years:
There are two essential life lessons I learned from Paul Krouse. The first is a commitment to fitness and taking care of your body. And, of course, the second is a lifelong dedication to healthy eating choices. [Pause for laughter.]
While it is fun to joke about Paul—he was a very funny man—the truth is that he was, far and away, my biggest role model in life.
…
As you all know, our family has had their fair share of loss over the last few years. I have delved extensively into the subject of death and dying. I can promise you that the end of Paul’s life was extraordinarily beautiful, and his grandkids will always remember that death is a part of life.
Now, I am also here as a representative of Paul’s oldest daughter Amy. Amy LOVED her daddy. At the point in Amy’s life when she started to become known as an accomplished author, Paul would always remind people (anyone who would listen, really) that before any fame—and way more important than her literary and speaking accomplishments—Amy was a genuinely good person. I know that even with all of Paul’s own success, we can agree that the same is true about him.
I would like to conclude with some of Amy’s own words. These are from her memoir, so the “she” Amy writes about is her:
1970—Practices swimming in pool with father. She starts on stairs, he stands waiting a few feet away. Just as she approaches him, he takes a step back. He keeps doing this. He is encouraging about it, but she is nervous, out of breath. Doesn’t want to keep going . . . just wants to be swept up in his arms when she reaches him. The relief, the snugness, the glory of finally being in Dad’s safe arms.
If you believe in such things, I hope you envision Amy’s number-one cheerleader joining her now for a magnificent safe embrace.
Paul’s loss was hard. In many ways it was harder than the loss of my own father.
By December 2018, my journey through loss and grief had taken many twists and turns. I was asked, for example, to return to the Matter gathering, this one in Los Angeles. However, this time I was one of the presenters, delivering a talk on love, grief, loss, and resilience. My mother was in the audience. At that point, a large component of my message was to talk candidly about end-of-life issues, home hospice, and how we humans deal with such intense loss yet carry on with our lives.
Once again, I had to face all those questions from a personal perspective. Certainly, I was much more self-aware of the effects deep loss had on me and my family. I was also quite familiar with the hospice experience. I answered the very questions I pose to audiences: “How much can the human condition handle? What makes us capable of dealing with these intense losses and yet carry on?” The answer: It is a lifelong mission. I, however, had Amy’s express permission to absorb the most intense loss imaginable and be told clearly that I had to go on with making a new life. I feel obligated to share that mission with the universe, both here and in my speaking life. It is so, so hard. I wish none of these losses formed my own story, but they do. My personal experiences have allowed me to appreciate what I have and permit me to share what I have learned with you.